


Eventualities

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Chronic Pain, Community: hc_bingo, Early Relationship, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, Whump, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-16 14:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21272696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: He thought he'd prepared himself for the eventuality of John seeing him naked one day. He hasn't.Or, Harold has a bad night and has to accept John's assistance.





	Eventualities

**Author's Note:**

> This was for Day 15: Scars for Whumptober. I totally meant to post it in October, but fic exchanges happened.
> 
> Also fits my HC Bingo "chronic illness/pain" square. I keep forgetting I have that card lying around, oops.

He realized early on that it was possible that, one day, John would see him without clothes. Most likely, it would be in an emergency, having to strip down to nothing due to injury, or maybe chemical exposure. Or perhaps a more pleasant situation, one of the ones they've been steadily inching toward but haven't quite reached, where he finally lets John leave the lights turned on.

These are not the circumstances Harold would have chosen for it.

They've been working a number on the road, holed up in a small town's only hotel together as they've monitored a young hacker who got in over his head and went on the run. Harold's been busy nonstop, hunched over his laptop for hours, running on a few winks of sleep and far too much tea to be healthy, but they finally tracked the boy down and put him on a bus with a new name and a stern warning. The fact that the boy was the same age Harold had been when he'd fled his old life had only added to the stress.

It's the coldest night of the year thus far, too, thick clouds churning overhead with the promise of snow. Harold can feel every last absent degree of heat and every single burgeoning snowflake stabbing into the broken spaces in his muscles and nerves and bones. The pain defies words, a mélange of _harsh, burning, dull, cramping, aching, electric,_ every other descriptor he can think of and some he's likely forgotten and some contradictory all applicable to the sensation. His entire back has seized up, gone stiff and agonizing. Movement hurts. Sitting still hurts. Existing hurts. And the drugs are taking their time kicking in.

Good heavens, what he wouldn't give to be alone.

Perhaps, he thinks, as he gives up on another attempt at shrugging out of his waistcoat, he can get away with sleeping—or feigning sleep, or pretending to work, most likely—in his clothes. A scorching hot shower would be an immense help for the tightly knotted muscles, at the very least, but he can live without it. As long as he can keep this weakness of his hidden. He's been in this much pain in front of John before, but there's always been some distraction, some work to be done, something to keep him from exposing this part of himself. Now, all that can keep him quiet is his own will.

Except he accidentally lets slip the tiniest whimper of pain as he shifts position, and John, of course, does not miss it.

"Do you need a hand?" John asks, soft and kind, looking at him not with pity but concern as he gets up from cleaning one of his guns at the table and heads Harold's way.

Harold should say no. He can do this on his own, surely. Except...no. God, he feels like such a weakling, not being able to take off his own damn vest and shirt. But he is too tired, is hurting too badly, to do anything other than swallow his pride hard and reply with a small, "Yes, please."

To Harold's immense relief, John doesn't say a word as he helps. He moves Harold's arms with great care, face neutral—kept that way more for Harold's benefit than anything, Harold suspects. He pauses only when Harold can't suppress his hisses and _ohs_ and other pained sounds, dropping apologetic kisses on exposed skin with each one, then gets back to work, silent and efficient. Soon, Harold is down to his undershirt and trousers, John crouched at his freshly kissed bare feet, tucking Harold's neatly rolled socks into Harold's oxfords.

Harold is not looking forward to the removal of the rest of his clothes.

Some of the pain can be avoided. Much as he is loath to defile or destroy perfectly good clothing without just cause, the undershirt is merely a simple cotton tee, one of several he has packed. All it will take to deal with it is a pair of scissors or one of John's alarmingly sharp knives. And the pain in his back is most certainly at the _just cause_ level.

Lying underneath his clothes, however, are scars. Answers. Despite the changing state of their relationship, the new and growing closeness, Harold is not ready to share those answers yet. And someone with as many scars as John will easily recognize the kinds etched into Harold's skin. Oh, John absolutely has a theory on what caused his injuries, possibly even a correct one—there is no doubt in Harold's mind about that. Only a fool would think that John wouldn't try to guess what caused the limp and the injured neck. Harold likes to think he isn't a fool, especially where John is concerned.

But there is a vast, vast difference between guessing and _seeing_ Harold's greatest failure and gravest mistake writ across his flesh, between feeling the damaged tissue beneath fingertips and knowing the shape and color of it. And while he'd thought he'd prepared himself for the eventuality of John seeing him nude one day, especially after those first shared kisses, those first heated touches, he is starting to realize that he has not.

"I can take it from here," Harold says, and makes an attempt at standing that he instantly regrets, that leaves him biting back a gasp.

John is on his feet immediately, moving with enviable, infuriating ease to guide him back onto the bed. There's no derisive comment still, no teasing and disbelieving _Really?_ or any other such thing. "I'm guessing you want a shower?"

Harold's wry, "Are you saying I smell?" comes out weaker, more strained than it should.

"You smell fine. I'm saying you've taken two showers a day since we got here," John says. "One after you get up, one before bed." He lays a hand on Harold's back, at the base of Harold's aching neck, gentle and still, warm, so warm. Close to, but not touching, some of the scars. Harold finds himself leaning slightly into the touch, even as he clenches his eyes shut, the burn in his face and the ache in his chest competing with the other pains. John kisses the top of his head. "Not hard to guess why."

"It helps," Harold admits, his stomach twisting. He feels exposed, naked, even in his remaining clothes. "With the pain. It's...excessive, I know, but it helps this time of year."

"Let me help, too." John slips his hand down, and tugs the hem of Harold's tee from his trousers. His fingertips skim over Harold's skin, one brushing over a small scar. John doesn't react, but Harold jumps slightly, his breath hitching. "You'll feel better once you get that shower."

"I—" Harold swallows hard.

"You'll feel better," John repeats. "Everyone needs a hand every now and then."

It's an echo of something Harold said to him once, when John was half-conscious and struggling to move against the pain of fresh gunshot wounds. _"Everyone needs a hand every now and then, Mr. Reese."_ Harold helped him handle the deeply private tasks of daily life then—dressing, bathing, cleaning up after using the restroom even, until John regained some strength and grew accustomed to the pain. It had been difficult for a self-reliant man like John to accept that sort of help, but he had. How is this any different?

After a moment, John adds, "Isn't that what you hired me for—giving people a hand?"

There is no rational explanation for this being different, is there?

Reluctantly, Harold gives him a quickly-aborted attempt at a nod that hurts far more than it should. "Very well. There are..." His throat clenches. "There are scissors in my suitcase. My sewing kit, or my first aid kit. I don't think I can..." He raises his arms as high as they'll comfortably go, which isn't very far tonight, in wordless demonstration. "Not right now."

If John has any sort of reaction toward Harold asking to have his shirt cut off, after the many, _many_ rants about taking proper care of one's clothing, he doesn't show it. Instead, he handles the task with a soft, "Okay," and the same swiftness as the others—gathering the scissors, cutting off the thin undershirt, all of it.

Far too soon, Harold's torso is bared, on full display for John's keen eyes. He wants to say, _Please, don't look,_ but the words catch and die on the lump in his throat. Closing his eyes, he waits, stiffening further, more painfully, with every passing silent moment. The time seems to stretch out forever, dilating into something slow and sluggish, like John is staring at him, _dissecting_ him with his eyes.

He hears John set the scissors down, and time snaps back into focus. Likely only seconds have passed. A hand settles on his back, in the blank space between the two most prominent sets of scars, still and solid and, to Harold's surprise, almost soothing. "Do you need anything else?"

Harold tries to speak, but his voice cracks. He stares down at the floor instead, and acts as though the amorphous shape of a suspicious old stain on the maroon carpet is the most fascinating thing in the world.

"I'm sorry," John says. "I know this sucks. I know you're hurting. But you have nothing to be ashamed of. You saved that kid's life today—you. That was all _you_." He starts to run his hand slowly up the length of Harold's back, then down again, following the path of Harold's battered spine in tender strokes. His hand is heavy and hot, the skin rough and callused, but the touch is sweet, careful. Reverent. "You're incredible."

"I don't...it's not that. John, I..." He doesn't know what to say, how to feel, and lets out a quiet, frustrated, broken groan. If he were capable, he'd flee to the shower, to the solitude, the sanctuary of the closed bathroom and the hot and loud water drowning out his thoughts and his shame. This is so hard. God, why is it so hard?

"I know," John says, his hand going still on the scarred and cramping small of Harold's back. Then warm lips brush Harold's bare shoulder, tender and so very brief. Harold wishes he could give the kiss the reaction it deserves, but another stabbing pain low in his back murders that idea in its cradle. He fails to stifle his whimper.

"Shh, it's okay." John starts moving his hand again. "Harold, it'll be okay. I promise."

John stays like that for a moment, rubbing Harold's back so lightly, quiet save for his breathing and the whisper of skin moving against skin. Harold longs for chatter, longs for anything that will silence the chaos in his head and calm the sick, hot twisting of embarrassment in his stomach and distract him from the hellscape that is his back. He clenches his fists so hard his short nails dig crescents into his palms, the sting of it only a fleeting little breath of distraction from his back. His respiration is harsh and ragged, sawing in and out. And he can't tell if John is making the tension, the pain worse or not.

"What can I do?" John asks, after a long while. "I just want...I don't want you to hurt like this."

The broken tone, the pure _honesty_ in John's voice goes straight to Harold's heart. Oh, he's read this all wrong, hasn't he? He hasn't given John the credit he deserves. There is nothing to fear from this exposure. From John. No one understands this as well as John—all the fear of showing off vulnerability and history, all the regrets that are as much a part of a scar's makeup as collagen. And, for now at least, Harold believes him. All John likely feels in this moment is empathy and care, and what he wants more than anything is to ease Harold's pain.

Perhaps it's time to allow it. "There's not much you _can_ do, I'm afraid," Harold says. His voice sounds rough, terrible. "And you should know that this...it is not a unique occurrence."

"I figured. Some of those meds...Powerful stuff."

_Not powerful enough,_ Harold thinks bitterly, but John's not through talking.

"I just want to know how to make it easier on you, what helps..." John says, and trails off into a short silence. "So what helps?"

What indeed. But it is not a question with an easy answer. Sometimes nothing helps but time, plodding through on a pill and a wing and a prayer to something he's never successfully believed in. Others, a heating pad pushed to its limit, or a backrub that he'll never ask for, not even under threat of torture or death. Pain, he has found, is quite the complicated matter. Most of the time, he has to settle for coping, and he has, at least, found a few ways to do that.

"I'd quite like that shower now, I think, and—" And his back _hurts_, and the narcotics will be kicking in any second, and the words don't want to come out. He forces something out anyway. "And I might—no, I _do_ need some assistance. Would you please—"

"Of course." John holds out his other hand, and Harold takes it, lets John help him to his feet, and does not hold back his groan of pain. "Just lean on me," John says, "and I'll help you out."

Harold does, and after John places a kiss on the corner of Harold's lips, Harold lets John lead him forward.


End file.
